At this point in my photographic life, I don’t care how sharp your images are. I don’t care how fast your lens is, how big your sensor is, or how technically perfect your exposures are. I don’t care if you’re using an iPhone or a Leica. What I care about—what moves me to my core—is whether your photography feels like anything.
Does it stir something?
Does it whisper, or scream, or sing?
Does it make me pause? Does it make me ache?
That’s what I’m after.
See, somewhere along the way, photography became too cold, too clinical. We obsessed over specs, comparisons, pixels, and post-production. But we forgot the most important element in any frame: feeling.
Photography is not just an art form—it’s a relationship. And like any good relationship, it only works when you give it your full heart.
When I talk about treating photography like a lover, I mean it. A sexy, whispering, intoxicating presence that you want to spend every waking hour with. Someone you want to know inside and out. Someone you dream about. You don’t just snap a picture—you swoon. You surrender. You crave.
I’m not interested in being a camera technician. I want to be a visual poet. I want to feel the image before I ever shoot it.
When you’re truly in love—with the light, with the subject, with the story—your photography changes. It opens up. It breathes. It begins to carry weight.
Emotion is the great differentiator. It’s what separates snapshots from soulshots.
Imagine being in a relationship where you never kissed. Never touched. Never made love. Never shared secrets. Never laughed until your stomach hurt. Never idolized the other like they were the only one in the room. That’s not a relationship—that’s a transaction.
And that’s exactly what lifeless photography looks like. Transactional. Sterile. Empty.
Life is emotional. Love is emotional. Why would photography—this beautiful craft of freezing time and honoring experience—be any different?
Some of my favorite photos I’ve ever taken are not technically perfect. Some are even blurry or grainy. But they are bursting with emotion. They are messy, raw, real. They feel like something.
They remind me of a moment I never want to forget. A laugh shared in Lisbon. A sunset alone in West Texas that made me cry. A stranger’s face during Mardi Gras that cracked open my heart.
None of those moments were “planned.” They weren’t lit or staged or optimized. They were felt first. Then photographed.
Here’s the truth I’ve learned over four decades behind the lens: the best photos are taken when you’re not trying to impress anyone. Not your followers, not your peers, not even yourself. You’re just… being present. Being moved. Being available to the moment.
Emotion doesn’t come from fancy gear. It comes from caring deeply. From slowing down. From letting your heart lead.
If there’s one thing I wish every photographer would do more of, it’s this: shoot with your heart wide open. Risk being vulnerable. Let your soul leak into your work.
Because in the end, photography isn’t about what the camera sees—it’s about what you feel.
So forget perfect. Forget polished. Forget trying to “crack the code.”
Instead, chase that tingling-in-your-spine kind of inspiration. Chase the goosebumps. Chase the lump in your throat.
And whatever you do—don’t fake it. Photography knows when you’re faking it.
Photograph like you’re falling in love. Like you’re writing a love letter with light. Like the world is full of secrets, and it’s your job to listen close enough to hear them.
That’s when your photography will rise to new heights. Not when you master exposure, but when you let yourself feel—really feel—what you’re trying to say.
That’s where the magic lives.
That’s where the emotion is.
That’s where you are.
With all my heart.
Click.
Jack.
